Until Proven Guilty
by RantWaitingToHappen
Summary: Peter thinks Neal tried to escape and tries to arrest him! But what actually happened? Hurt!Neal SLASH, but with Elizabeth and her awesomeness in the middle of her two favorite boys. R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**One.**

Neal was dead.

Well, not yet; but when Peter got his hands on that self centered, audacious, smart-mouthed ex con—

"He's on his way, Boss." Diana announced from her work station.

Peters' fists clenched involuntarily. He was going to kill him. He was going to knock him over the head, drag him by his entrails across the bullpen, set him on fire, beat him with a rusty iron pipe, and stuff the corpse in an evidence locker, to rot.

Clinton Jones grimaced as he suppressed a shudder. He knew that look on his mentors' eyes; he was out for blood. Jones understood why, though—even _he_ was upset. The whole white collar crimes team had been working none stop for the past three weeks on a case perpetrating jewel thieves who'd struck thrice so far; twice in the museum of natural arts, and once in the mansion of a wealthy entrepreneur. The suspects were narrowed down to the Erickson brothers—James and George. Neal had managed to gain their trust and the two had let him in on their next escapade. Despite the bugs they'd planted on Neal, the team hadn't gotten anything concrete to use against the pair of brothers, and were hoping to catch them in the act today at eight pm, when the whole thing was supposed to go down, according to Intel.

It was now 10:28 pm. And Neal had been a no-show. Clinton had overheard a couple of the agents who still hadn't warmed up to the ex-con say he'd chickened out, but Jones knew better. Neal had gone undercover plenty of times in the past, in cases involving more dangerous elements than two kleptomaniac brothers on a shopping spree, without a minutes' hesitance. Clinton frowned. The more likely option was that something had kept the charming ex-con artist busy.

Peter had a similar idea. "The second he walks in through those glass doors I'm gonna' throttle him." He growled.

Diana and Jones both winced. "Boss," Diana intervened. "What makes you think he tried to escape?"

"His ankle monitor was off from 7:36pm to just a half hour ago." Peter put his head in his hands. "He must have been planning an escape, knowing everyone was too busy with our current case to notice anything—it was perfect. He was going undercover today so no one monitoring the anklet bothered reporting when he went off the monitor."

"But he's coming back. The anklet turned back on and started tracking his movements again; he should be here in a few minutes according the monitor." Diana said, attempting to vouch for her comrade.

"Of course he came back—his plan probably backfired and he wasn't able to disable the anklet for long; when he realized it was blinking again, he knew he couldn't out run the FBI forever and decided to turn himself in. He'll probably try to BS his way out of this one." Peter was furious. But more than anything, hurt. And disappointed, too. He'd trusted Neal.

"Hey, there he is." Someone on the floor of the bullpen whispered.

Someone else scoffed. "Can you believe he'd show his face here after screwing up the Erickson Case?"

"Right? I don't know why Burke ever bothered with him."

Neal was dressed in a large, black, hooded jacket, and dark sweat pants. Peter saw red. He'd been right, after all. Neal was carrying a sports bag over his shoulder—probably containing his valuables—a navy blue cap, and ink black sun glasses—it was dark and cloudy out, so it wasn't hard for the FBI agent to presume they were to hide his identity from any prying eyes.

The office floor was buzzing alight with gossip.

Reese Hughes, agent in charge of the FBI's White Collar Crime Unit, stepped out of his office, with what seemed to be a permanent frown etched on his face. "Everyone get back to work! Special Agent Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, in my office. Now!"

Peter didn't wait for the ex con to reach the stairs before storming up them and into Hughes' office—he was absolutely livid! He couldn't even look the kid in the eye.

Neal for his part was completely silent, head down, hands in his pockets, back hunched a little, as he made his way up the stairs a few steps behind Peter, ignoring all the curious whispering.

Hughes demanded they both take a seat, as he paced back and forth behind his grandiose desk for a moment, a vein popping up on his forehead. "Caffrey, I hope you're aware of the fact that because you decided to play hooky today, our main suspects in a high profile case the mayor has been hounding the federal bureau of investigations about for the last three weeks just got away—we'll be damn lucky if they talk to you again, much less include you in one of their heists."

Peter clenched his jaw; he'd trusted Neal and he'd gone and pulled this shit and who knew what Hughes would think of him now—would he still think his judgment was sound enough to stay head of his team? He couldn't believe this. Couldn't believe Neal would do something like this to him.

Neal squirmed in his seat, looking uncomfortable. "I know, and I'm sorry about that, but you have to listen to me—"

"I have to listen to _you_? To hear some half-assed con artist excuse? To think my top agent even vouched for you when you didn't show up earlier." Hughes scoffed in disgust. He too, like Peter, had wanted to believe the young man was changing for the better. Caffrey was an overall good kid; charming, likable, smart—they'd gone to an art exhibit together, for Gods' sake! Reese was fond of the guy, even if he'd never admit it, but all the evidence pointed to Neal having attempted an escape, something he could not turn a blind eye to.

Neal spared Peter a glance. He'd vouched for him? Neal would've been glad for it, if the agent didn't look so pissed.

"In fact, I can't believe you had the audacity to come back here and show your face—even if it was to turn yourself in."

Neal started, flinching involuntarily. "Turn myself in? Look, I understand me not showing up for the op decreased our chances on the case, but I don't think that's just cause to arrest me—"

Hughes glowered at the youth. "I don't think you're aware of what the penalties for attempted escape are, Mister Caffrey. You are a felon and our responsibility—"

Neal started a second time and interrupted hastily. "_Escape_? I didn't try to escape—you can check my anklet status on the monitor, it would have alerted you if I'd gone beyond my radius!"

"Don't play dumb, Caffrey, we know you deactivated the anklet. The only reason you're here is because the anklet wouldn't cooperate with—"

Interrupting him a second time, Caffrey stood up abruptly and slammed his hands down on Hughes' desk. "I'm telling you, I didn't try to escape, I have no idea what you're talking about!" he insisted.

"That is enough, Neal." Peter stood up as well, and took out his cuffs, "You have the right to remain silent—"

Even Hughes was startled by the almost animalistic whine that arose from the ex cons' throat when Peter yanked his arm, in an effort to hand cuff his wrists together. "Ow, ow, ow, Peter." Neal whimpered.

Peter paused, let go of his arm, and let the younger man regain some composure. "Neal, what are you trying to pull?" he couldn't help but be suspicious.

Neal frowned darkly. "I'm not pulling anything Peter, what the hell? I didn't try to escape either!"

"Explain the shades, the cap, the sweats, that "gym" bag, and the malfunctioning tracker, then." Peter questioned, all in one breath, anxious to hear the excuse this time.

"Don't waste our time with bogus lies, either, Caffrey." Hughes huffed out, arms crossed over his chest.

Neal fidgeted, put the gym bag down on Hughes desk, and started unzipping it. "There, no get away clothes, no dirty cash—just my suit." He muttered.

Peter went to inspect it himself and rummaged through the bag. He took out Neal's suit and was shocked to see the thing torn and bloody. "Neal, what is this? What happened?" Hughes had similar sentiments.

Neal sighed, "I couldn't get a ride, so I walked here, and it was 7:30 when I left, but I was scared I might not make it in time," he scoffed at the irony, "so I took a shortcut through the alley way near 5th. Should've known it was a bad idea—I was dressed in Ralph Lauren, for shits' sake." Neal took off his cap and glasses, to reveal the nasty gash on the side of his head and a colorful shiner—the kind you'd see on a wrestler on T.V.

"Jesus Neal!" Peters' eyes couldn't have widened anymore if they tried.

Hughes was about ready to call an ambulance, his hand on the receiver. His hair was a disheveled mess, looking closely, the kid was quite pale, Hughes could almost feel the _throbbing_ in Neal's black eye, and he was damn sure that gash on his forehead was caused by a blade.

"Should see the other guys…" Neal shrugged half heartedly.

"_Guys_? As in more than one? Damnit Neal, what happened?" Peter asked, alert now.

"I got mugged Peter, what the hell do you think happened? Oh, wait, that's right, you think I tried to make a getaway." It was Neal's turn to glare at the men, but he couldn't find it in himself to be mad. He was just tired. The energy drained out of him and he sat once again, limp and exhausted. "I'll try to fix a deal with the Erickson brothers tomorrow—I'm sorry for ruining the OP and apparently attempting an escape. I'm going home now." Without waiting for either guilt-stricken man to reply, Neal walked out of the office and down the stairs, only to be met by Diana and Jones, who both stared wide-eyed at the bruises that now stood out starkly on his sheet white face.

"Neal," Diana uttered, shocked, "Did you two…?" the question was left hanging in the air, she couldn't believe that her boss would lift a hand against the C.I.

Neal realized then that in his rush, he'd left his hat and sunglasses upstairs, and nothing concealed the awful bruising forming on his eye, cheek, and lips. He sighed audibly and shook his head, but rethought it halfway when it made him dizzy. "No, I need to get out of here, can one of you drive me home?"

"My car's in the garage, let's go." Jones immediately volunteered. Neal looked a mess, and as if on the verge of collapsing, even.

Once they were in Jones' vehicle, and a block away from the building, Jones opened his mouth, "Neal, what happened to you? We can stop by the hospital if you—"

"No, no hospital," Neal interrupted almost immediately. "Just—just take me to Junes', please."

Jones grimaced, "Neal…"

"You can ask Agent Burke what happened when you get back to the office, I'm sure by tomorrow morning it'll be top news in the rumor mill." The C.I. parted ways with the young agent as soon as the car reached the front curb.

Upstairs, Neal gingerly took off his jacket and slipped off the sweats. Everything hurt and if he hadn't felt like complete shit an hour ago in the ER, he definitely felt like it now.

**I love reviews…HINT HINT. Seriously though, my first White Collar fic, what do ya' think?**


	2. Chapter 2

"I screwed up." He confided in his wife, head in his hands.

"Oh honey," El placed a kiss on her husbands furrowed brow.

"I mean, it's been so long since he's even attempted anything!" Peter sighed. "When he was late, I called his cell. No answer. I decided traffic might be keeping him, and we waited. You know I wasn't even the one who suggested they check the damn anklet? The thought didn't even cross my mind!" Peter sounded amazed.

El smiled warmly. "You're starting to trust him, Peter. That's a good thing."

"But I screwed up so badly tonight!" he huffed, frustrated at himself.

"Neal will understand why, Peter." El soothed. "What kept him, do you know?" she inquired.

Peter couldn't look his wife in the eyes when he said "He was mugged…"

Elizabeths' eyes widened, and she sat up rim rod straight. "How is he? Was he hurt? Did he report this to the police?"

"From what I could see he had a shiner and a deep cut above his brow—he was walking a little funny too—I should've noticed, damnit!" he slammed his fist against the table.

"Honey, we have to go—" El began, only to be interrupted.

"I can't. He hates me right now El. You should've seen the look of betrayal on his face. You go; one of us should. I'm worried about him, and I know you are too."

"But honey—"

"It's alright; I'll be fine. You go." He assured her, kissing her cheek.

He barely heard the knocks on his door. His eyes drifted over the pretty painting that was New York at nighttime. From the balcony, he watched the people below, the cars, the yellow taxis, and the blinking lights of an insomniac city.

He didn't notice when the knocking ceased. He didn't notice the soft clicking of heels on his marble floor. And yet, he was not surprised when he felt the warmth of another body pressed against his back, or arms wrapping themselves oh so gently over his shoulders, and resting against his chest. He could smell her sweet, peppermint scent, and instantly relaxed. "Hey El." He greeted.

"Neal." She acknowledged, not letting go.

After several moments, El lead Neal inside, where it wasn't quite so chilly, and was able to sit him down on his bed. Without speaking, she brushed the hair from his forehead and inspected the gash on his forehead with a tender hand. She leaned in carefully and her lips met the bruised skin around his eye. She kissed him there and then proceeded to unbutton his white collared shirt.

El stifled a gasp upon seeing the angry black and purple bruises, marred with ugly yellow across his chest, back, and stomach. Silently, she imitated her first act, kissing the bruises—on nearly every inch of his skin.

Neal sat there, still and a little wary, but somehow relaxed. He let her strip him of his briefs and kiss the bruises on his thighs and on his calves. "I love you Neal. I'm so sorry this happened to you, honey." She finally spoke, her words very sincere.

Laying there, naked, and bruised, and very vulnerable, Neal let out a small sob. He put a hand over his face, ashamed of the tears freely flowing from his eyes and rolling down his cheeks.

El quickly but gently pried his hand away and replaced it with her shoulder, embracing her lover.

He grabbed hold of her and cried—a catharsis at last.

"I'm here for you baby; let it out." She consoled, kissing the top of his head.

She, Peter, and Neal had started dating four months ago.

Elizabeth had confessed, near tears, to having feelings for another man—Neal—to Peter one night, and instead of what she'd been expecting, his reaction had been to sigh in utter relief. He'd laughed out loud and confided, "Me too, El."

Two days later, they'd both invited the former con-artist over for dinner—Elizabeth had made all of his favorites, Peter had picked up a bottle of the finest wine he could find, and they'd sat there, carrying on in small talk for some time before Peter finally turned to Neal and uttered: "Neal, El and I have romantic feelings towards you."

El smiled softly, thinking back on Neals' shocked expression.

"Did you go to a doctor, baby?" she asked, once he'd stopped crying, and sat there, leaning against her chest, breathing a little hard.

"ER." He replied, his hands playing with the thick locks of her hair. "I'll live." Neal smiled into the warmth of her skin and kissed the nape of her neck chastely.

"He's sorry you know." She hummed. "You understand why he thought that, right?"

Neal sighed profoundly. "He still doesn't trust me. But I can't blame him—I haven't exactly given him much reason to think that he should."

"There's a long history between you two, Neal. He needs time to adjust to this new thing we've got going." She explained, rubbing his shoulder up and down.

"I know." He put his arms around her waist and pulled both of them down onto the bed, so that they were lying flat against the mattress. "Still hurts…" he muttered. "Is he mad at me?"

El, startled, shook her head quickly. "No baby, no, not at all. Why would he be mad at you?"

Neal shrugged. "He didn't come with you…" he admitted.

"Oh no, no, no, Neal." She curled up against his side and ran her hands over his chest. "He thinks you're mad at him—he thinks you don't wanna' see him right now, hon."

Neal sighed again. "I am mad at him—and at myself, for giving him reason not to trust me—but I mean, I get it." Neal rolled over in bed so that he was half on top of El. "Mmm, I'm tired…and achey," he nuzzled her neck, yawned, and said "Love me back to health."

El giggled like a little girl, and pulled him in closer, kissed his lips, and ran her hands across his back. "I love you Neal." She whispered.

"I love you."

El pulled him up against her and let him rest his head on her bosom. "Go to sleep." As her lover drifted into the land of slumber, she wondered how Peter and Neal would duke it out tomorrow.

She hoped they resolved the situation soon; sleeping next to a naked Neal was making her fidgety. Makeup sex with her two boys was always the best. Hell—she'd be happy just to sit in the room and watch them go at it.

El chuckled to herself and fell asleep, her lullaby the steady rise and fall of her lovers' chest. God, she was glad he was ok.

A.N. COMING UP NEXT: NEAL AND PETERS SEXY TIMES…And maybe some cool action-y stuff involving the Erickson brothers, guys.


End file.
